


Black Air

by Hathaway01



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Guitars, M/M, Music, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hathaway01/pseuds/Hathaway01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James tries to strum his way to an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Air

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing my guitar (instead of writing reports), and thought of this! So, I wrote it down (also, very much instead of writing reports!!) I'm really loving being part of this fandom, and feel confident in putting forward my little offerings. I hope you like them.

James huffed out a breath of frustration. He had been casually plucking at the strings of his guitar, sounding out chords that made up a song of nothing in particular. His long, thin fingers hugged the neck of the instrument, and curled to bear down on the tough metal. His fingertips, hard and calloused, evidence of hour upon hour of playing. Whenever he is struggling with something internally, he uses his music to help him try to work his way through the fog. 

Tonight though, the fog isn't clearing, not one little bit. It’s a real pea-souper so to speak. And he knows why. It’s the same thing he has been struggling with for months. Years if he is honest. He strums a gentle C chord, picking through to a G. Still nothing. No moment of clarity. No bright light signalling an answer. He moves his fingers deftly over the frets, A, D, Em, G. He likes the way the chords ring together, like they are supposed to be played that way. Like they are made to fit together in a melody that you recognise, but you’re not sure where from. 

He huffs again, throws his pick on the coffee table and leans his baby against the couch. No amount of strumming will ever help him move past the overwhelming weight he feels in his heart. He had heard him say it once. ‘Nothing helps…’. He wishes he didn't understand that, but he does. The agony of unrequited love engulfs him with such a force that he can almost physically feel it. Robbie was right. Nothing helps. But at the moment, there is nothing else. He turns the lights out and heads to bed. 

“Goodnight, Sir” he utters into the black air.


End file.
